


'tis the damn season

by thesurielships



Series: evermore [2]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Holiday Angst, a little bit of smut, inspired by tis the damn season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:40:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28118589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesurielships/pseuds/thesurielships
Summary: We could call it evenYou could call me “babe” for the weekend’Tis the damn season, write this downI’m stayin’ at my parents’ houseAnd the road not taken looks real good nowTime flies, messy as the mud on your truck tiresNow I’m missing your smile, hear me outWe could just ride aroundAnd the road not taken looks real good nowAnd it always leads to you and my hometown
Relationships: Feyre Archeron & Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Series: evermore [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2058630
Comments: 17
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> warning: a little bit of smut.

It’s Christmas morning, and Feyre wakes up in her favorite place in the world: 

Rhysand’s arms.

He’s holding her tight, his nose nuzzling her neck, his heart beating steadily against her back. She carefully untangles their legs so she can turn to him. Her breath hitches like it always does when she sees his face. He looks young in his sleep, as peaceful and strikingly handsome as ever. She dares to trail a finger lightly on his high cheekbones, the slight stubble growing on his sharp jaw. She marvels at how he never seems to change.

Rhysand with his simple smiles and his teasing smirks and his bedroom eyes.

Rhysand with his ancient truck and his massive telescope and his stables full of horses black as night.

Rhysand with his warm laugh and his warm hugs and his warm bed.

She is an unmoored ship in the sea, every storm chewing her up and spitting her back again, and he’s the beacon leading her home every time.

Her fingers trace his lips, smooth and decadently soft. His breathing changes and soon, too soon, violet eyes are looking at her.

A breathtaking smile instantly lights us his whole face, and he yawns as he pulls her even closer. She nuzzles his chest so he doesn’t notice the lump forming in her throat.

Every moment she spends with him is bittersweet, because she leaves on the 26th. She always does.

Rhysand has drifted off to sleep again, and she settles in his embrace. She hopes she still smells like him when she goes back.

Time stops as she lays there, listening to their synced heartbeats. She can’t help but wonder if this is the last time he will ever hold her like this. It is a constant ache in the pit of her gut, the possibility that the next Christmas, Rhysand is happy with someone else and effectively shuts her out of his life. When she’s feeling particularly sorry for herself, she tends to imagine him on the altar, smiling at a blushing bride. Maybe she’s wearing black, symbolizing his favorite color. Maybe she’s already pregnant, and a few years later he’ll have a baby in his arm and a child’s hand in his.

Her phone rings, the shrill sound disrupting the cozy silence blanketing the room, and time resumes its too fast flow.

Rhysand groans but lets her go. She blindly reaches for her phone and curses when she sees who it is.

_Tamlin._

She rises from the bed, donning a robe, and stands at the frosted windows. Rhysand’s house may be on the outskirts of town, very far removed from everything, but the scenery's worth it: a panoramic view of the snow coated Staghorn Mountains. Stars twinkle in the night sky, bright and big and closer than she ever saw them.

“Hello?”

“Feyre, baby.”

His voice is too loud in the quiet room. In the window, Rhys’s reflection stiffens.

“Don’t call me that.”

She can hear the eye roll the asshole gives her. “You’re always so uptight.”

“I am also your colleague, and I demand you speak to me with professionalism,” her voice is sharp even as shame mottles her cheeks. She always feels slimy after talking to Tamlin, and she hates that Rhysand is here to witness it.

“Anyway,” he drawls, ignoring her. “It’s about your latest painting. People are asking for the price, babe.”

“It’s not up for sale.”

He barks out a laugh. “Everything is for sale, provided it’s the right price.”

She clenches her fists and imagines punching him in the face. That manages to take the edge of her anger off ever so slightly. “That painting is special to me. I am not selling it.”

“Mmm,” he replies noncommittally.

“Tamlin, I swear to God, if anything happens to that painting –”

“Okay, okay,” his tone is patronizing. “Chill, babe. Can’t sell it without your pretty face, anyway.”

She rolls her eyes and hangs up in his face.

“Who was it?” Rhysand asks, as he stretches. His voice is still gravelly from sleep and the cover falls and exposes his naked chest. Feyre is too enraptured to answer. Her eyes gobble up the lean muscles, the intricate lines of his Illyrian tattoo, the hair trail leading to her happy place.

“Darling?”

Her eyes snap up to his face where a smug smirk curves his lips.

“The owner of the gallery I hold my exhibitions at,” she replies as she makes her way back to the bed.

He welcomes her back into his arms and presses a quick kiss to her brow before resting his chin on her head. The small gesture tugs at Feyre’s heartstrings.

“Sounds like a complete and utter jerk.”

She huffs a laugh. “Understatement of the century.”

They stay quiet for a moment, basking in the silence. It’s just before dawn, her favorite part of the day. The entire city is still asleep, and for a delicious second, she can almost pretend they’re the only ones in the world.

“What do you want to do today?” Rhysand’s tone is carefully neutral.

She gives him a hopeful smile. “You?”

He chuckles and presses a chaste kiss to her lips. She twines her fingers in his hair, pulling him back, and soon he’s lying on her, pressing her into his bed. Her legs wrap around his hips and he groans into her mouth. The sound makes something inside of her snap, and in a fit of strength even she is surprised by, she flips him over and straddles him.

They both moan when their centers align, her robe and his underwear providing an all too thin buffer.

Her hips begin to rock of their own volition but Rhysand stills her with his hands on her waist.

“The gang wants to see you.”

Feyre pauses, gauges the sincerity on his face. She finds that hard to believe.

She broke all ties when she left for college all those years ago, her relationship with Rhys included. By chance, she stumbled on him the first Christmas she spent back home, and somehow this – whatever this was – became their Christmas tradition. 

Feyre knows she’s breaking her own heart a little more every year with this arrangement, and she suddenly wonders if Rhys is so unaffected that his friends don’t mind seeing the girl who fucks him once a year and disappears.

“Do they know?”

His expression shutters, and she can feel his muscles stiffen under her hands. “No.”

Feyre gently massages his chest, his shoulders, his neck. “Do you want me to go?” she asks hesitantly.

He attempts a smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “The choice is yours, darling.”

“Rhys.”

She holds his gaze for a few heartbeats, and she can almost swear she sees her own warring emotions reflected back at her: soul deep longing, hesitancy, fear, resignation, hopelessness. Or maybe she’s just projecting.

“Yes,” he finally breathes.

She leans down and kisses him slowly, savoring his taste. “Okay.”

So Feyre spends Christmas with her high school friends. It isn’t the least bit awkward. She’s instantly welcomed back into the group, and it’s almost like she never left. No one asks her how she’s doing in LA, and she’s grateful. She cannot begin to express her conflicted feelings about her current situation.

She is proud of her accomplishments in LA, of the reputation she built for herself and the artistic success clear in the number of galleries her work fills and the amount of customers willing to bid for it. Yet at the end of every exhibition, every fancy gallery party, she thinks of her hometown, of the road not taken. What if she didn’t stay in LA after college? Would she own a small studio with an excellent view of the mountains? Would she paint her favorite things, unencumbered by the expectations of the snobby critics and the pretentious wealthy clients? Would she teach? Share her art with children and adults alike, making it a welcoming home at the end of a hard day instead of an overpriced mantelpiece no one glances at twice?

Nevertheless, Feyre leaves the next morning.

Rhysand drives her to the airport and gives her a long kiss in his truck. His forehead rests against hers, his fingers cupping her cheeks, his breath mingling with hers.

She holds back her impending tears and summons a brave smile. His answering smile is sad, and she knows he sees through her. He always does.

She swoops in for another kiss, then another, and another, until her alarm is blaring and she has to go.

Still she spares a moment to stare at him, commit every part of him to memory.

He does the same.

Not for the first time, she wonders if he, too, feels the same ache settle in his bones every time she leaves. If he hopes she doesn’t.

But he doesn’t ask her to stay, so she doesn’t ask him to wait.

She turns on her heel and leaves the love of her life and her hometown.

Success and loneliness beckon.

To LA, she sails.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s New Year’s Eve, and Rhys is in the last place he ever thought he would be.

The building looms over him, massive and imposing. It’s painted crimson and gilded in gold. Statues stand at its gate, of lions and men he doesn’t recognize. Its opulence is a little out of place in a modern day city. At least, it would be, if it weren’t on Palm Street, the legendary street of art and extravagance, the LA version of the Rainbow.

It doesn’t hold a candle to the Rainbow, if he’s honest.

The street is packed. People clad in all different kinds of attires, ranging from the fancy to the bizarre, walk past him. He feels small, a speck in a foreign city he doesn’t belong in.

Every instinct in his body is screaming at him to run, fade into the crowd and forget this crazy idea. But his used plane ticket is a heavy anchor in his pocket.

“I’m sick of you ruining holiday season with your moping misery,” was all Mor said as she slammed it on his kitchen table, next to his discarded glass of champagne. It’s Feyre’s favorite drink and he always stocks up on it before Christmas.

His cousin gave him a one way ticket to LA. If he didn’t know her intentions, he might have been offended.

A fresh wave of suited men and gowned women enters the building, and he follows them in.

Feyre’s exhibition is called Beacon in the Night. He smiles to himself. The fascination she has with the night sky is endearing.

His determined steps falter when he spies the first painting: the Staghorn Mountains, as seen from the window of his bedroom. His breath hitches as he takes in the snow shining in the starlight, and the constellation etched at the top. It’s a small one, ten orbs in the rough shape of a five pointed star, which they coined on their first date. The feysand constellation, Feyre called it fondly.

The next painting is of his truck, its worn out metal gleaming. Tire tracks mar the grassy slope it sits on, and a memory sparks alive. On the Christmas when their tradition began, he saw her next to their old school, shivering in a too thin coat. _LA is so warm I forgot what cold is_ , she said in lieu of hello. He chuckled and opened the door of his truck for her, fully intending to drop her off at her parents' house. But then she smiled at him, her blue eyes twinkling, and he was driving around the city instead. She quickly caught on to him, and directed him to that grassy slope. _It has an excellent view of the night sky_ , she whispered slyly. Needless to say, she didn’t make it home that night.

Each of the paintings are a window into their shared times, as few as they were.

An ebony horse eating out of a small, uncalloused palm.

A hand – his hand – tangled in golden brown strands.

Blankets strewn in front of the fireplace in his living room.

Small hands cupping a stubbled jaw.

Each step he takes leads him further down memory lane, and by the time he reaches the main attraction of the gallery, he’s almost falling apart at the seams. The entire exhibition feels like a love confession, but he refuses to believe his foolish, hopeful heart.

His heart stops for a long moment, proving a point, when he looks at the huge painting.

Violet eyes, their irises flecked with stars, stare back at him.

“Rhys?” a lilting voice calls.

He swallows his emotions before daring to look at the love of his life. She is resplendent in a midnight blue gown that shows off her sharp collarbones and her elegant neck.

Her eyes shine, and he can’t tell whether it’s with happiness or annoyance. His heart rate picks up. Cauldron, he hasn’t been this nervous since the day he asked her out for the first time.

“I’m pretty sure I could sue you, Feyre darling,” he says, summoning the irreverent smirk that always makes her roll her eyes.

Sure enough, she does.

“And here I was, wondering what finally got you out of Velaris.” A sly gleam crept into her eyes. “A courthouse romp does sound appealing.”

Rhysand’s laugh bursts out of him without warning, loud and incredulous. “You wicked creature.”

She shrugs, her smile widening. “I’ve been called worse.”

“So, how much is this one?”

Feyre cocks an eyebrow. “You’re here to _buy_ one of my paintings?”

“An Archeron is the corner stone to a well-furnished living room, according to Cosmo.”

Her eyes twinkle with amusement. She opens her mouth to say an undoubtedly witty remark, but she is interrupted by a hand on the small of her back.

Rhys stiffens as he takes in the tall man. Everything about him screams money, from his elaborate hairdo and the golden pin in his tie, to his designer suit and shoes and lavish watch.

His smile is tailored to please, his demeanor a carefully constructed mask of seemingly effortless charm.

He is exactly the kind of man he imagines Feyre with, and an all too familiar ache settles in his chest.

“Feyre,” the man says, sizing him up. “Fancy finding you here. There is a buyer for this painting.”

“Tamlin,” she sighs, stepping out of his touch, and Rhys finally puts a face to the asshole’s voice. “I told you it’s not for sale.”

He looks at Rhys meaningfully.

Feyre’s lips purse. “He’s not a buyer.”

“Clearly.” Tamlin’s voice is dismissive as he peruses Rhys’ best suit and the new shoes he bought on the way. He figured his trusty boots wouldn’t make the cut here.

Even though Rhysand knows he is in no way inferior to this man, having worked for a fortune that remains forever smaller than the one he must have inherited, he can’t help but feel out of place.

He fits in the gallery, among Feyre’s painting. Next to Feyre.

“Tamlin,” Feyre’s tone is glacial and it’s only now that he notices the murderous look in her eyes. “Rhys darling is not a buyer because he already owns the portrait.”

Rhysand’s mind stops when she uses the endearment, so it takes him a while to absorb what she said.

“What?” Tamlin grinds out through his teeth.

Feyre’s eyes meet Rhysand’s and hold. “The painting is yours, Rhys.”

He can only gape at her, and she rolls her eyes. She grabs his hand and whisks him away to a locked room in the back of the gallery.

Even when the door is shut behind them, she doesn’t let go of his hand.

“Champagne?”

“Sure.”

She releases his hand so she can uncork the bottle and pours him a glass. He drains it in one gulp.

“I’m sorry I came announced,” he finally says.

She shakes her head. “It’s a nice surprise.”

Silence settles between them, awkward and stilted. Feyre fidgets with her flute of champagne.

“I’m sorry I painted you without asking,” she whispers into the quiet.

His heart is beating so loud he can barely hear her. “It’s a nice surprise,” he repeats.

Their eyes meet and part, repeating the same nervous dance multiple times before he finally gathers the guts to speak.

“I –” His voice comes out rough and he clears his throat. “I know I don’t fit in your life.”

Her head snaps to him, eyes impossibly wide. Rhysand fights the heat creeping up his neck as he continues.

“You’ve made a life for yourself out here, and I would never ask you to give any of it up. You –”

“What are you saying, Rhys?” she interrupts him, her voice breathless.

Somehow, he finds the courage to confess in the depths of her eyes.

“I love you, Feyre. I understand if you don’t feel the same, and if Christmas is all I ever have with you, I can live with that. I don’t want to –”

He forgets what he doesn’t want to do because Feyre’s lips are on his own, and she’s kissing him like a starved woman. His hands slip around her waist, drawing her closer, and she sighs into his mouth. Her fingers twine in his hair, her jasmine scent wraps around him, and finally, he’s home.

Eventually, need for air forces them to part. Their foreheads meet instead, desperate for any and all contact possible.

“I love you, Rhys,” she says softly, her eyes still closed. When she opens them, they are shining with unshed tears. “I never stopped.”

His eyes grow misty, and he kisses her again, savoring the moment, but she pulls back.

“This is my last exhibition,” she admits, her voice filled with uncertainty.

His brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

She bites her lip, hesitating. “I’m moving back to Velaris.”

His jaw drops.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s been a long time coming. I’m miserable here, and admittedly it has a lot to do with you, but like, no pressure or anything –”

Her rambling is interrupted by a squeal when he picks her up and twirls her in the air.

The following Christmas, Rhysand stands at the altar, smiling at his blushing bride.

She’s wearing black, despite Mor’s protests.

Feyre’s smile is as bright as the stars in the sky as she puts her hand in his and joins him.

As they whisper ‘I do’ into each other mouths, snow begins to fall.

The groom tucks his shivering bride into his arms, and that’s where she stays for the rest of the night.

On the 26th, for the first fime, Feyre wakes up in Rhys’ bed.

And she does every day for the rest of her life.


End file.
